May 4 1895

While I am still a jealous man, I am no longer jealous of your wife. I only hope now that she brought you great happiness. I hope your times with her were good. I hope your times with me were good. I hope your time with whoever is in your life now is good. I wish it were me. I wish I were there, by your side, I wish you were here, back in London, I wish, fervently, that we could be together once more. But if that is an impossibility, I wish for your happiness above all else. I wish that your little Susato brings you as much joy as my little Iris brings me and that your days are filled with light and laughter, even if I am no longer the one bringing that joy into your life.

I cannot keep writing of all the things that I wish for, dearest. It is too painful and you will never see this anyways. This is my own collection of private thoughts, of things I cannot say. I will burn this once I have finished writing, but in the meantime, these thoughts must go somewhere. ...Contents of a letter, hastily written then set aflame.